


hold on when you get love

by kitseybarbours



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Pining, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Soft Kylux™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do I have to do to get you to stop <em>showing up</em> like this?”</p><p>
“Give me your number,” Ben says, leaning forward, eyes solemn and serious even as a mischievous smile plays on his lips. “And agree to go out with me. That way, <em>you</em> can decide when to see me, instead of just waiting in antici…pation for me to show up,” he grins.</p>
<p>
“Unbelievable.” Hux rolls his eyes yet again, but it feels half-hearted, this time. He looks Ben square in the eye and asks, choosing his words very deliberately, “So if I go out with you once, I never have to see you again? Ever?”</p>
<p>
Ben might be mistaken, but Hux’s words are starting to feel a little <em>too</em> deliberate. He’s no English major, but he’s getting some definite <em>lady-doth-protest-too-much</em> vibes here. He smiles. “Only if you want to,” he promises, serious now; but then he winks again. “Which you will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on when you get love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [iwanttoplayguitar](https://iwanttoplayguitar.tumblr.com/) as part of [Mak](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)'s mini fic exchange! The prompt was (if I can take the liberty of paraphrasing a little), "a modern AU where Hux and Kylo have a brief first meeting, ending in Kylo thinking Hux is hot but not getting his number, and then pursuing him until he goes out with him." I do hope I've done an okay job filling it!!
> 
> Title from [Hold on When You Get Love and Let Go When You Give It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaRQV9vcIRs) by Stars. As per the usual, these characters aren't mine. :)

*

_“Shit!”_

The collision happens in an instant — just long enough for the redhead’s shirt to get completely doused with the entire contents of Ben’s large coffee. The paper cup in Ben’s hand is empty, the lid clattering uselessly to the ground.

“I didn’t even see you there!” Ben exclaims, wincing. “Shit, I am _so sorry,”_ he apologises. People on the quad are having to divert around them, shooting them dirty looks; Ben grabs the redhead by the elbow and moves the two of them over to the side of the footpath. The redhead stands frozen and furious, staring down at his once-crisp white shirt in disbelief.

“It’s okay,” he says through clenched teeth, sounding out each syllable as if it pains him. “Grab some napkins or something, would you?” he asks tightly.

“Got it! Yeah! Be right back,” Ben answers, and sprints back to the coffee stall to grab a handful of napkins. He chucks out his now-empty cup on the way back —  _what a waste of three dollars —_ and then shoves the napkins at the redhead: “Here! Here you go. Do you need some help?” Without waiting for an answer he starts trying to mop up the mess, patting awkwardly at the stranger’s coffee-soaked blazer and shirt.

The stranger tenses at Ben’s touch, and automatically Ben steps back. The redhead seizes the napkins from him and takes over, patting furiously at the spreading stain.

“I’m _fine,”_ he hisses, “except that I have a meeting with my new thesis advisor in ten minutes, and now I have to go back to my room and change. And from what I’ve heard, Professor Organa doesn’t take kindly to lateness.” He heaves a loud, annoyed sigh.

Ben brightens immediately. “Wait. Professor Organa? She’s your thesis advisor?”

The redhead looks up, eyes narrowed, from his useless ministrations, and gives a suspicious nod. “Yes. Why?”

“No way! That’s my _mom,”_ Ben exclaims. “Dude! This is so perfect! I can just text her and tell her you’ll be late, and you can go home and change,” he explains enthusiastically. “It’ll be fine!”

 _“Perfect,”_ the redhead repeats, sardonic. Ben notices for the first time that he has a posh, clipped British accent: _Pehfekt,_ is what it sounds like. “Except that you’ve ruined a brand-new Tom Ford shirt _and_ my thesis advisor’s first impression of me.” He actually rolls his eyes, his lips twisting in annoyance.

“Dude, I told you,” Ben counters, “I’ve got this covered.” He pulls out his phone, opens his text thread with his mom. “What’s your name? I’ll just explain what happened. I’ll tell her it was all my fault,” he adds, grinning widely.

“It was,” the redhead says flatly.

Ben doesn’t know if that’s fair — from what he recalls, neither of them had been paying attention, and they’d walked into _each other_  — but something about the redhead’s British accent and his apparently total lack of a sense of humour moves him not to correct him. “Yeah,” he agrees peaceably. “It was. So what was your name, again?”

“Huxley. Brendon Huxley the Second,” the redhead says, and he actually seems to draw himself up a little, his eyes flashing imperiously.

“Sweet,” Ben says absently, typing: _hi mom!! ur student is gonna be late this morning — brendan huxley — it’s my fault, i’ll tell u later,_ _don’t get mad at him!!!!_ “Wait — ‘The Second’,” he says, looking up from his phone. “Are you, like, a lord or something? Across the pond? Or are your parents, like, _royalty?”_ he asks eagerly.

“My father is in the navy,” Brendon Huxley the Second replies, his nose wrinkling. “But we do have a family seat in Surrey, if that’s what you mean by _a lord or something_.” He peers over to look at Ben’s phone. “You’ve spelled it wrong,” he says, pointing. “It’s with an _o.”_

“Sounds good, Brendon-the-Second-with-an-O,” Ben grins, correcting his mistake and then firing off the text. “All done! She’ll be cool with it, I promise.” He flashes a thumbs-up.

“Thank you,” Huxley II says grudgingly. He gives one last swipe with the napkin to his shirt, and then finally gives up. He’d set his Cambridge satchel on the ground while trying to clean up, and picks it up now, ready to leave — but just before he does, Ben grabs his arm.

“Wait,” he says. “I’m really sorry about this, honestly. Lemme make it up to you — buy you a drink? Take you for coffee?” he grins — because not only is Brendon Huxley posh and British, he’s also _really cute._ Ben doesn’t want to let this chance slide. _Maybe it won’t have been such a waste of three dollars after all —_

But to his disappointment, Huxley looks down his freckled, princely nose at him and says coolly, “No thanks. I really do need to be going.” And then before Ben can protest, he shakes off Ben’s arm, turns back the way he came, and hurries down the path in the direction of the residence halls.

“Shit,” Ben says softly to himself, shaken by Huxley’s coldness. _“Shit.”_ He sighs, watching as he gets further and further away with every long, harried stride.

Ben checks his phone. His mom hasn’t texted back yet, and for a vindictive second he hopes she didn’t get the message: that Huxley will show up late, panting and apologising, and that Leia Organa will just stand there, arms crossed, mouth set in a _tsk-tsk_ line, and level him with the _look_ that Ben has feared since childhood. He imagines his tiny, fierce mother giving Brendon Huxley the Fifth-and-a-Half-Or-Whatever a stern talking-to, and slowly a smile creeps across his face at the thought of Huxley’s snobbish airs disappearing in the wake of Leia’s rage.

He gets back in line at the coffee stall and orders another one, doctoring it with sugar and lots of cream. As he walks to his first class of the day (not bothering to hurry; he’s already late), he wonders, absently, if — since he’s one of his mom’s students — he’ll ever see Huxley again.

It’s silly, he knows it is, but he hopes he will.

*

He can’t believe it.

Ben’s just gotten out of his last lecture of the day — of the week, actually, seeing as it’s Friday — and is popping by the campus bookstore: his younger cousin Rey just got her early-acceptance letter, and he’s promised to buy her a varsity sweatshirt. And whom should he find behind the till of said bookstore but his mother’s newest thesis-advisee, Brendon Huxley the Lord or Something?

Ben’s first thought is, _God, he’s even cuter when he’s not about to murder me._

Huxley’s wearing a grey polo shirt with the school’s crest on the pocket; he smiles affably at the girl whose books he’s ringing through, asking her very politely if she would like a bag, and wishes her a good weekend when she leaves. He turns to help the next customer — calling, “Next, please!” in that delicious accent — and smiles professionally at them, too. He brushes red hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, his expensive-looking watch glinting in the light.

Ben grins. This is too good to be true. Their school isn’t exactly _small,_ and it’s not like he’s been to the bookstore since the beginning of the semester, when there was _definitely_ someone else working the till. Noting how long the line is, Ben takes his time in choosing a sweatshirt for Rey (deliberating between something hideous and something she’ll actually wear, he eventually chooses the latter, to be nice.) And when there’s only two people left in the queue, Ben gets in line behind them, waiting patiently. He’s very glad that Huxley’s the only one working — and that he’s not carrying coffee this time.

“Next, please,” Huxley calls, when the last customer before Ben has made off with her enormous copy of _War and Peace_ in the original Russian. He sounds tired; as Ben comes up to the till he closes his eyes briefly, giving a sigh. And when he opens them and registers Ben’s face, he starts. “Oh, it’s _you_ ,” he says unpleasantly.

“Hey,” Ben grins, depositing Rey’s sweatshirt on the counter. “Can you believe this? What a coincidence, right?”

“We go to the same school,” Huxley retorts, scanning the price tag. “Although I can’t say I’d have expected to see _you_ round the bookstore,” he says idly. “Or buying women’s sweatshirts, for that matter,” he adds, raising his eyebrows. “Do you need a bag?”

“It’s for my cousin,” Ben shrugs. “Yeah, I need a bag. And can I have your number, too?”

Huxley has turned away from him to jam the sweater in a bag (not taking the time to fold it neatly, like Ben had seen him do a few customers ago.) When Ben asks, he freezes right up — the rustling of the paper bag goes silent — and then he turns back around slowly.

“Can you _what?”_

“Can I have your number?” Ben repeats cheerfully. “I’m serious about this whole apology-drinks thing. I still feel bad about making you late the other day,” he adds. “How did that go, by the way? Did everything work out?”

“Yes, it was fine,” Huxley replies irritably. “Your mum” (Ben can hear the _u)_ “got your text and knew I’d be late. She was very gracious about it — said something like _if my son had anything to do with it, all I can say is I’m sorry,”_ he adds snidely.

Ben laughs, unfazed by the intended jab. “Glad to hear it. She’s a cool lady, I told you she wouldn’t mind.” Huxley thrusts the bag at him, frowning, and Ben takes it. “Thanks. But, like, _seriously,”_ he presses. “You get off soon, right?” The bookstore is empty now; the clock on the wall behind the till reads 4:58. “You busy tonight?”

 _“Yes,_ actually, I am,” Huxley replies haughtily. “I’m attending a lecture by a guest professor.” His raised chin punctuates his sentence: _so there._

“On a Friday night?” Ben teases, incredulous. “Cool. Cool, man. No problem. Just — gimme your number and we can make plans another time.”

“I don’t even know your name,” Huxley replies. He surveys Ben warily.

“I’m Ben,” Ben tells him immediately. He sticks his hand out over the counter with a grin. “Ben Organa-Solo. Good to meet you, again.”

Huxley shakes his hand with reluctance. “Hmm. In slightly better circumstances,” he concedes. He withdraws his hand from Ben’s and starts tidying up the counter for the end of the day.

“So is that a yes? Since you know my name now, does that mean I can have your number?” Ben reiterates, leaning on the countertop.

“No,” Huxley says carelessly. “Goodbye.” He makes a dismissive motion, shooing Ben in the direction of the door.

Ben holds up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right,” he says, cheery and unperturbed, making his way out of the bookstore. “But I don’t think you’ve gotten rid of me yet,” he calls. “I have a sense for these things, dude!” He taps his temple and waggles his eyebrows. “We’re gonna see each other again, I’m sure of it.”

“If I _never_ saw you again, it would be too soon,” Huxley calls airily back, coming out from behind the counter to close the doors. Ben grins at him from the threshold. Huxley flips the _Open_ sign around and jabs a finger at it: “We’re closed.”

“I’m gone,” Ben promises, stepping outside. Huxley shuts the doors firmly behind him; Ben can see him frowning through the window, and he waves. Huxley rolls his eyes and disappears back inside the store.

Ben wasn’t kidding about that sixth-sense thing. He _does_ have the very real feeling that this isn’t the last time he and Huxley will meet — and if he does anything to…help that feeling along, well, really, who can blame him?

*

“Mom, I’m serious,” Ben beseeches his mother over dinner that night. (He’s moving out as soon as he finishes his degree, but for now, the ten-minute commute to campus from the same old house where Ben grew up suits them both just fine.) “Can you _please_ just, like, talk to him for me? Ask him if he’s single, at _least?”_ he begs.

“Ben, he’s one of my students. I really don’t think that’s appropriate,” Leia frowns.

“But you’re not asking for _you,_ you’re asking for _me!_ That’s not weird!” Ben throws up his hands dramatically. “I’m _telling you._ I have a _feeling_ about him. The fact that we’ve run into each other twice in one week, and on a campus this size —” Ben pauses for effect, levelling his mother with a wide-eyed, serious gaze. “It’s, like, _fate.”_

His mother rolls her eyes. She takes her time sawing off a piece of filet mignon, dipping it in peppercorn sauce, chasing it with mashed potatoes before she speaks again, leaving Ben drumming his feet under the table in anticipation: “Mom, come _ooonnnnn!”_

Leia takes a sip of red wine and shakes her head. “I don’t know _what_ you see in this guy,” she comments. “He’s brilliant, sure, but as far as I can tell he’s got zero personality. And his thesis is…well, it’s weird, to say the least,” she adds. “Kid’s got some serious delusions of grandeur.”

Ben seizes on this, ignoring the bit about _no personality_ (which, like, okay, he can see why she would think that.) “Really? Like what? What’s his thesis about? Tell me everything,” he entreats her eagerly. He pushes his plate away, food all but forgotten.

“He’s writing about history’s great empires, from the Roman to the Napoleonic, and discussing the merits of a return to imperialism in 21st-century society,” Leia tells him reluctantly. “He’s very focused on the military aspects — he’s got all these in-depth asides about weapons systems and battle strategies and that kind of thing, and he’s barely even started,” she says. “Seems to me he’s seeing _himself_ as the next great emperor, and he’s got a plan to make it happen.” She shakes her head again, but fondly, this time. “Why is it I always end up with the crackpots?”

“Because you’re the best prof in the whole poli-sci department and there’s no one else smart enough to deal with them,” Ben tells her seriously, grinning. And then a look of deep contentment settles over his face. He gives a sigh. “God. He’s _so cute,_ and he’s _smart,_ too…”

“And weird,” Leia interjects. “Don’t forget weird. And obsessive. Power-hungry. Possibly megalomaniacal.”

“ _So cute,”_ Ben repeats sternly. “Mom. I’m begging you. _Get me his number.”_

“No,” Leia refuses point-blank. “I’ve said too much already. I shouldn’t be encouraging you to stalk one of my students, for God’s sake…” But she sighs heavily, apparently moved by the pleading expression Ben has adopted. “I see him Tuesdays at ten. He’s weirdly punctual — we’re always done by eleven on the dot,” she tells him. “He doesn’t have another class until one. And he spends a lot of time in the west library.” She raises her eyebrows. “But you didn’t hear that from me, understand?”

“Mom,” Ben says, his voice trembling with gravitas, “have I told you lately that you are the best mother in the galaxy?” Solemnly, he stands up and comes around the table to loop his arms around Leia’s neck from behind, depositing a smacking kiss on her braided hair. “I love you so, so, so, so, _so_ much,” he tells her. “You’re invited to me and Brendon’s wedding.”

“I’d better be, for all you’re putting me through,” Leia says grudgingly. But she smiles, and then shoos her son off: “Go. Don’t you have a project to finish?”

“Do you think Brendon would mind if I drew him?” comes Ben’s gleeful reply from halfway up the stairs.

Leia only sighs in response. 

*

“Is this seat taken?”

Ben’s stage-whisper comes out much louder than intended. Several heads at neighbouring tables pop up, frowning, to look at him. He mouths _Sorry_ with a grin, and then turns back to Huxley, sitting surrounded by books and glaring at him.

 _“Shhh,”_ Huxley hisses, his eyes narrowing automatically at the sight of Ben. “This is a _library.”_

“I’m a fine arts student,” Ben replies (he’s trying to whisper, really he is.) “I’ve never been in here before.” He makes a show of looking wide-eyed around him, letting his jaw drop in stagey wonder. He drops his bag amid the neatly stacked materials on Huxley’s table and crosses to the nearest shelf, picks up a book at random. “Is this…a _book?_ ” he gasps. “I’ve never seen a _real_ one before. What does it _do?”_

Huxley sighs. Ben winks, replacing the book less carefully than he should and then dropping his weight heavily into the empty seat. Huxley blinks, looking affronted.

“So what’s up, Lord Huxley?” Ben asks in an enthusiastic whisper. “How’s the research coming? You writing lots? Can I have your number?”

Huxley’s lips press into a thin, irritated line. “For the love of God, don’t _call me that,”_ he whispers peevishly back. _“Hux._ Just Hux will do.”

“Okay, sounds good, _Just Hux —_ ”

 _“Hux._ Call me Hux.” Hux presses his fingers to his temples and looks at Ben, shaking his head. “Is this — cute? Are you trying to be _cute,_ or are you genuinely just this irritating?” he asks in incredulity.

“I don’t know,” Ben answers cheekily, “you tell me. Do you think I’m cute?”

Hux gives a very loud sigh and rolls his eyes for a long, long time, tipping his head back and exhaling. “I refuse to dignify that with a response.”

Ben pumps his fist. “I’ll take that as a yes!”

“How did you _find_ me?” Hux hisses, sitting back up straight. He’s still holding his retractable fountain pen and looks prepared to use it as a weapon if necessary. “You’re never in the library.”

“Have you been keeping an eye out for me?” Ben asks at once. He smiles, blissful. “You have. You totally have!”

The vein in Hux’s jaw stands out. His face is slowly reddening; he looks like he might start steaming from the ears at any moment. “I have been doing _no such thing,”_ he blusters. But his eyes dart around, now: it strikes Ben that he’s _nervous,_ as improbable as that would seem — and, also, that it looks adorable on him.

“I have my ways,” Ben tells him in response to the original question. He wiggles his fingers and raises his eyebrows: _“And_ I have that sixth sense I was telling you about. I told you we’d see each other again.”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t be on this plane of existence,” Hux replies, sounding genuinely despairing. “What do I have to do to get you to stop _showing up_ like this?”

“Give me your number,” Ben says, leaning forward, eyes solemn and serious even as a mischievous smile plays on his lips. “And agree to go out with me. That way, _you_ can decide when to see me, instead of just waiting in antici…pation for me to show up,” he grins.

“Unbelievable.” Hux rolls his eyes yet again, but it feels half-hearted, this time. He looks Ben square in the eye and asks, choosing his words very deliberately, “So if I go out with you once, I never have to see you again? Ever?”

Ben might be mistaken, but Hux’s words are starting to feel a little _too_ deliberate. He’s no English major, but he’s getting some definite _lady-doth-protest-too-much_ vibes here. He smiles. “Only if you want to,” he promises, serious now; but then he winks again. “Which you will.”

“ _Un_ believable,” Hux repeats, almost to himself. But now — at last, at long last! — he digs through his satchel for his phone, and taps at the screen with pale, nimble fingers. He shoves the phone at Ben and says, “Number.”

“You got it,” Ben beams. He takes the phone (it’s shiny, foreign, and no doubt expensive) from Hux, and enters his number eagerly. In the _Name_ field he puts _Ben Organa-Solo,_ and in the _Nickname_ one, _The Cutest Guy You’ve Ever Met._ He hands the phone back.

Hux reads what he’s entered, gives another of those sighs of his…and doesn’t delete anything.

He sets the phone down on the table, glaring at Ben, and says, “I’ll text you. One date. _One.”_

Ben is practically speechless with triumph. He snaps off a salute, and is pleasantly shocked to see that this makes Hux _blush._ “You got it, boss,” he answers, grinning widely.

Hux blushes even deeper and makes a flustered kind of hissy noise that sounds rather like an angry English cat. He waves his hand impatiently at Ben (who is mentally congratulating himself while also filing a few things away _to be explored.)_ “Are you done?” he snaps. “I have work to do.”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Ben promises. “I got what I came for, so I’ll leave you alone now, no worries! Good luck with your research and stuff,” he tells him, meaning it.

“Thank you,” Hux says through his teeth. His face is still bright red as he bends back over his book.

At the door, Ben looks back at him — and he could almost swear he’s stayed frozen, reading the same line over and over, his pen in a death-grip in his hand. As Ben watches, Hux bites his lip and takes a fistful of his hair in his free hand, obviously distracted. He glances at his phone and then looks quickly away again.

Ben leaves the library whistling.

*

_So this “date”. Have you actually got a plan?_

The text comes in from an unknown number late that night, just as Ben is putting away his sketchbook. (He put in a few really solid hours of drawing after he came home from the library; he _knows_ it’s Hux who inspired him.) He reads the text, and he grins, knowing it can only be from one person. He wipes graphite off his fingers and hurries to reply:

 **Ben:** _coffee._

A moment later his text tone sounds again.

 **Hux II:** _You’re not serious._

 **B:** _i am!! completely._

 **H:** _After what happened last time, I don’t trust you anywhere near an espresso machine._

Ben’s grin grows wider. This almost sounds like _flirting._

 **B:** _got a better idea? ;)_

 **H:** _All of my ideas are better than yours. All of them._

Seconds later:

 **H:** _They’re holding a festival for my favourite director at the cinema downtown. If we’re going to do this, I may as well introduce you to some actual culture along the way._

 **B:** _i’m literally a fine arts major!! what makes u think i’m uncultured?!_

 **H:** _It’s a toss-up between the Space Jam T-shirt you were wearing when we first met, and your complete and utter lack of tact when it comes to asking people out. Or, you know, maybe just a /feeling/ I had._

Ben actually laughs out loud. “He’s _flirting,”_ he says, incredulous. “He is _actually flirting.”_ He whoops. “I did it!”

 **B:** _aww, u remember what i was wearing ;)))))) too sweet <333_

 **B:** _but ok. i’ll go to ur “festival” to get some real “culture”. when? i’ll pick u up ;)_

 **H:** _You are /insufferable/. Do you ever take a break?_

 **B:** _from being the most handsome and charming man on the planet? unfortunately that’s a full time job_

 **H:** _I’m beginning to regret agreeing to this._

 **H:** _Tomorrow night. I live in Rutherford Hall, I’ll meet you out front at eight._

 **H:** _Do /not/ be late._

“Mom!” Ben hollers down the stairs. _“Mom!”_

“Benjamin, Jesus Christ!” comes Leia’s griping response from the kitchen, where she’s been grading papers for four hours. “Are you dying?”

“Nope!” Ben shouts. “I have a date!”

Ben can hear his mother’s groan from here. “Please don’t tell me it’s with Brendon Huxley,” she calls back.

“I won’t,” Ben answers joyfully. “But it totally is.”

Leia groans again. Ben thinks he can hear her head thudding against the kitchen table. “C’mon, Mom, be happy for me!” he shouts. “Your _only son_ has just secured a date with _the man of his dreams.”_

“If _he’s_ the man of your dreams, then I have failed you horribly as a parent and I am very sorry,” Leia yells back. “I’m glad you have a date, Ben, although I wish to God it was with _anyone else in the world.”_

“At least he’s not a serial killer,” Ben shouts back, sounding wounded.

“Not _yet,_ you mean.”

Ben makes an affronted noise. Leia clears her throat for one final burst of shouting: “Now I have to finish my marking, so if you need to keep screaming your joy to the heavens, please do so outside. I love you. Go to bed.”

“I love you too, Mom! Thanks for helping make my dreams come true!”

Ben beams. He looks down at his phone, which is still clutched in his hand. He realises that he hasn’t actually replied to Hux —  _Ooh, he’ll think I’m playing hard-to-get! —_ but then he gets impatient and texts back anyway.

 **B:** _sounds good. rutherford, 8 o’clock tomorrow. u got it._

 **B:** _night cutie. sleep well ;)_

*

Ben pulls up in front of Hux’s residence at exactly seven-fifty-nine p.m. on Thursday night. The front lawn is scattered with groups of hopeful students trying to catch the last rays of today’s unseasonable late-autumn sunshine; when Ben honks his horn, they look up, variously frowning and smiling at his beat-up grey '77 Mustang.

He sees Hux leaning against the outside wall near the front doors of the hall, arms crossed over his chest with his phone clutched in one hand. His face is set like he’s waiting to be led off to prison or the scaffold, and when he hears Ben honk, his head jerks up. He sees the car and his frown deepens even further. He hunches his shoulders and quickly traverses the lawn, jamming his phone in his pocket as he goes; Ben leans over to open the passenger door and Hux practically throws himself in, slamming it behind him.

“Goooood evening!” Ben greets him happily. “You look great.”

He does — dark jeans that flatter his slim hips, a grey cardigan over a polo shirt in an attractive shade of blue, his red hair perfectly coiffed as always. The only _unattractive_ thing about him is the scowl on his handsome face. “Drive,” Hux says through gritted teeth, yanking his seatbelt over his shoulder. “Everyone is staring.”

“And why shouldn’t they be?” Ben asks gallantly. He floors it and executes a definitely illegal U-turn at the end of the street, zooming towards the campus’ main entrance and the city. “Like I said, you look great.”

“That _definitely_ was not why they were staring,” Hux retorts, gripping white-knuckled to the handle on the roof as Ben accelerates into traffic. He stares at the dusty dashboard and the busted cassette deck with unbridled disgust. “How _old_ is this car? And how on Earth is it still running?”

“Hey, lay off the Falcon,” Ben says, stroking the steering wheel protectively as they come to a stop at a light. “She’s my baby.”

“You named your car,” Hux says in that familiar tone of disbelief. “Of course. Of course you did.”

“Actually, my dad did,” Ben corrects. “But he left her to me.”

Hux stiffens. The light changes, and Ben zooms through the intersection, tires squealing. _“Left_ her — do you mean he passed away?” he asks, and there’s no trace of arrogance or irritation in his tone. Ben nods, eyes on the road. “I’m sorry,” Hux says awkwardly. “I didn’t know.”

Ben shrugs. “Ancient history. I was pretty young,” he says easily. “’S just been me and my mom for ages now. We get by all right.” He pulls ahead of a silver Buick, narrowly missing its front fender as he changes lanes. “Whoops-a-daisy!”

“You drive like a maniac,” Hux comments.

“Thank you,” Ben beams. “So! Enough about me. How was your day? Did you have work? How’s that thesis coming along?”

“My day was fine, thank you,” Hux answers warily. “I did have work. The thesis is going fine.” He winces, still holding tight to the roof handle, as Ben takes a tight corner too fast. “I have the strong feeling I’m going to die tonight,” he observes. On cue, Ben whistles a few notes of _There is A Light That Never Goes Out,_ and Hux rolls his eyes.

“But the thesis,” he blurts suddenly. “Your mother — she’s an excellent advisor. Very good at her job.”

“The best,” Ben nods in agreement. “I know.”

“Have you taken any of her classes?” Hux asks. Ben smiles. _A normal conversation!_

“Yeah, a couple, in first and second year,” he tells him. “Just as breadth requirements, though.”

“What _is_ your major, anyway? And what year are you even in?” Hux demands. It seems to have just occurred to him that he doesn’t know this: “Actually, I don’t know anything about you, do I?” he adds. He shakes his head. “This _date_ is getting to be a worse idea by the minute.”

So Ben informs him, cheerfully ignoring that last remark, “I’m finishing up my BFA in illustration. I convocate in the spring.”

Hux’s eyes widen. “God, you’re younger than I thought — you know I’m doing my _masters’,_ right? I’m twenty-six.” He looks uncomfortable. “I should probably have mentioned that.”

Ben shrugs. “I’m twenty-one. I like older guys,” he flirts. Hux rolls his eyes again. But Ben quickly drops the act, and says, without pretension, “Actually, I just like you.”

Hux’s cheeks colour. “I’ve noticed,” he says, swallowing hard. “Ahem. Fine arts,” he says quickly. “Illustration. You’re doing — portfolios and such, then? What — what are they like?”

Ben is absolutely thrilled at Hux’s obvious embarrassment. _He likes me, he likes me…_ But he decides not to push his luck: at every stoplight, Hux’s hand twitches in the direction of the door handle; and so he spends the rest of the short drive to the cinema explaining, in great detail, his final project.

“So, okay, it’s a comic book, or at least I hope it’s going to be, and there’s this guy, his name is Kylo Ren, and he’s kind of _me,_ but in space…”

Moments later, he’s pulling smack into the middle of two stalls at the local art-house cinema (Hux gives an offended whimper.) “And yeah, so, like, it’s all about these _knights_ and stuff, and their adventures in another galaxy,” Ben says, shoving the stick-shift into park. “I’m trying to get it published, as, like, a graphic novel or something, y’know? I kinda wrote it for my kid self, and I wouldn’t mind putting it out there for other kids like me,” he finishes.

“Kids like you?” Hux has been listening with surprising intentness to all of Ben’s meandering, enthusiastic explanations.

“You know.” Ben waves a hand, all at once shy. “Broken home, or whatever. Troubled.” He puts air-quotes around the last word. “I had a…a pretty rough time for a while there.” He swallows. “But yeah,” he says. “That’s my current thing.”

Hux is quiet for a moment. Ben takes the key from the ignition; the old car creaks softly in the silence, the engine settling. Ben is afraid that he’s said far too much, done the last thing that’ll push Hux over the edge — but then Hux says, softer than he’s been, “That’s cool, Ben. That’s really, really cool.”

“Thanks,” Ben replies. He smiles. “So. Movie time!”

*

Hux’s favourite director, as it turns out, is David Lynch. The film festival is on all weekend, kicking off tonight with _Blue Velvet,_ which, Hux tells Ben with uncharacteristic enthusiasm as they wait in line for popcorn, is his favourite film of all time.

“Isn’t it, like, really violent?” Ben asks, nose wrinkling. “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard all kinds of things.”

“Yes, yes, it’s violent, but it’s _art,”_ Hux says emphatically. He’s talking with his hands, gesturing unrestrainedly: “It’s simply _brilliant,_ Ben, absolutely _life-changing._ I’ve seen it probably a dozen times. I’ve got most of it memorised.”

He looks _transported._ Ben flashes uncomfortably back to his mom’s “serial killer” comment, but dismisses the memory at once. _Look how cute he is when he’s excited!_

“Cool,” he grins. “I’m pumped.”

Ben falls asleep.

He’s awake for the first bit, with the ear, and he remembers the guy in the yellow suit, but then he feels his eyelids growing heavy, and before he can help it he’s dozed off. Hux doesn’t notice: he’s engrossed in the film, mouthing his favourite lines along with the characters. The popcorn sits forgotten on the floor between their seats.

Ben jerks back to wakefulness just in time to see Dorothy sing "Blue Velvet" the first time. Hux glances over at him, eyes questioning, and Ben flashes him a thumbs-up: “Great so far!” he mouths. Hux looks suspicious, but rather pleased all the same.

The film goes on. Ben’s eyes flutter open and shut; he catches fleeting glimpses of sex, blood, blue velvet…His head bobs helplessly, his chin hitting his chest as he slips into slumber again. He doesn’t _mean_ to; this just _happens_ to him. Violent movies make him check out, disengage — whereas they seem to have quite the opposite effect on Hux: he’s on the edge of his seat during the "In Dreams" fistfight scene, his eyes shining, wincing sympathetically when each punch is landed.

And then Ben’s head tips over and lands on his shoulder.

Hux gives a start: “What the hell,” he hisses, too loud in the near-empty theatre. The rapture disappears from his expression; his usual annoyed countenance has returned. On-screen, Sandy slaps Jeffrey across the face.

Ben apologises in a helpless whisper: “I’m sorry, Hux, I can never stay awake in movies! I know it’s your favourite, I’m really sorry, don’t take it personally —”

Hux’s face, illuminated in the flickering light of the screen, is arrogant and fierce. “For _Christ’s sake,”_   he says, and then he grabs Ben’s face in both his hands and kisses him hard.

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s so surprised that at first he forgets to kiss back. Jeffrey finds the Yellow Man lobotomised, and Ben comes to his senses, returning the kiss with gusto. Hux kisses him greedily, opening his mouth, and Ben half-wonders if he’s still asleep and dreaming; but no, there, Hux bit his lip, and that wouldn’t hurt in a dream, wouldn’t hurt so _good —_

They make out for the rest of the movie, messy and enthusiastic. The approximately six other denizens of the cinema do not appear to notice them, tucked away as they are in the very back row. Some high-pitched noises escape Ben’s lips and are mercifully camouflaged by the film’s soundtrack and the noise of gunshots. Ben slips a hand under Hux’s polo shirt, and Hux pulls at his hair, and Ben’s jeans were already tight but now they’re feeling tighter, and he’s just wondering if Hux is going to do anything about this when the film’s final montage comes to an end.

Hux pulls back the second the lights come up. His hair is mussed from Ben’s eager hands; his pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen. Ben has quite possibly never been this turned-on in his life.

“Whoa,” he whispers as the credits roll, shifting in his seat. “So that happened.”

“Yes,” Hux says stiffly, staring straight ahead, not looking at Ben. He tugs his shirt down, frantically smoothing out the creases, and stands in a hurry. “Come on,” he says, brusque. “Let’s go.”

“Oh,” Ben says, taken aback by the complete about-face. “Uh — okay. Yeah. Cool.”

Hux leads the way out of the cinema, walking fast, his entire body tensed. Ben opens the car door for him and he slams it hard, and then sits rigid the whole way back to campus, offering terse monosyllabic replies to Ben’s concerned questions:

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Is it — did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Did you…like the movie?”

“Yes.”

And then he folds his arms and stares pointedly out the window, not even holding onto the roof handle, leaving Ben to fret in solitary silence.

*

Ben thought he would text.

He figured Hux was just, like, embarrassed or something —  _something tells me he hasn’t made out with a lot of people at the movies —_ and that he’d get over it, apologise in the morning and all that, maybe even ask him out again. (That last part may’ve been a stretch, but Ben was prepared to hold out hope.)

But there’s nothing. Not when he gets home; not when he wakes up the next morning; not after his morning classes; not after his _afternoon_ classes. Nothing. He goes home, he draws for a few hours, finishes a paper, catches up on some reading, and there’s still nothing.

He doesn’t want to text Hux first — despite Hux’s curt assurance to the contrary, Ben feels that he’s the one who fucked up, and he doesn’t want to make it worse by pushing things. So he just waits, and waits, and gets nothing.

He finally caves just before bed.

 **B:** _i had a rlly good time last night — thanks for suggesting the movie :) just wanted to check in and make sure everything is ok!!_

He doesn’t put his phone on do-not-disturb before he plugs it in. He turns on a sleep playlist and settles in to bed, half-expecting the screen to light up within minutes; but still, nothing. He sighs and shuts his eyes. _He’ll text back in the morning._

But the radio silence goes on for days. And then the days become a week, and then two. Ben’s occasional, worried check-in texts, ranging from tongue-in-cheek _(so you’re still alive, right?? lmao)_ to genuinely concerned _(hey, srsly, if I did something wrong the other night, let’s talk about it)_ all go unanswered.

And Ben starts to get sad.

Instead of working on his Knights of Ren comic, the due date for which is all-too-rapidly approaching, he makes melancholy sketches of sad boys and dead flowers and sad boys holding dead flowers. His big easy laugh is smaller now, and comes less easy; “He mopes,” Leia tells her friend Monica on the phone one night. “He’s moping. And it’s that Huxley kid’s fault, it’s gotta be.”

But after two-and-a-half weeks precisely, during which time Ben has neither heard from nor seen Hux — not at the library, or on the quad where they met, or even at the bookstore where he works — he suddenly resurfaces.

It’s Saturday. Ben is in his room, blasting a moody Kate Nash song that he’s had on repeat all morning as he draws. He’s finally dragged himself back to the Knights and is shading the latest page as if it pains him.

 _I wish that without me you couldn't eat; I wish I was the last thing on your mind before you went to sleep,_ Kate is mournfully professing (at a very high volume) when Leia bangs on the door.

“Ben,” she shouts, “you left your phone downstairs.”

“I know,” Ben calls back, irritable, shading harder over his lines. “So?”

“So you got a text.”

Ben looks up, the pencil falling from his hand. He can tell at once, by the reluctant dutifulness in his mother’s voice, that it’s Hux who’s texted. “Can I see?” he asks.

His mother opens the door. Ben turns off the music just as the song starts over for the umpteenth time today. _All I know is that you're so nice —_

“Here,” Leia says, holding out Ben’s phone with a look of mild exasperation on her face.

Ben grabs for it with telling haste. His eyes dart as he scans the text, and he bites his lip, hard, as he hurries to unlock his phone and reply.

“What does he have to say?” Leia asks, unimpressed. She’s always been somewhat wary of Hux, with regards to him dating Ben, at least, and this little stunt has turned her off him even further. Her son hasn’t been in a state like _this_ since the rough dark days of his teenage years, the ones they’d each vowed and fervently hoped never to go back to.

“He wants me to come over,” Ben says. His eyes are wide: he looks dazed with relief.

Leia frowns. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” Ben sounds thunderstruck. He blinks a few times, as if waking from a trance, and then hurries to reply, thumbs flying over the screen.

Leia sighs. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’d — be right there,” Ben says. He looks at his mom, still stunned. “I have to go.”

He goes to the closet and starts flipping through his shirts — he’s been wearing the same faded My Chemical Romance concert shirt, which he’s had since he was fourteen, for three days now. Leia watches him, arms folded, as he hurries to change and drag his hair into a messy ponytail, a bemused, disbelieving smile playing on his lips all the while.

He’s shrugging on a hoodie when he turns to her and says, “Mom, I get to see him again.” There’s a note of worship in his voice, as if this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“He hasn’t talked to you in two weeks,” Leia points out. “He’s been ignoring you completely — maybe _hiding._ He’s been immature and selfish and cruel, and you’re _excited_ to see him again? You think he’s going to _change_ just like that?”

Ben hesitates. And then he nods. “I — yeah. Everything’s going to be fine.”

He goes down the stairs humming, grabs his keys at the back door, and waves to his mom as he leaves their cul-de-sac and drives up to campus.

*

Ben’s never been to Hux’s dorm, but when he parks at his residence, he finds that Hux has texted him the room number. He takes the stairs up and knocks on his door.

It takes Hux a while to answer — “Coming,” he calls from inside, sounding flustered. There’s a moment of fumbling with the handle and then he opens the door a crack. “Ben,” he says, startled and frowning. “I didn’t think you’d be here so — soon.” His face is flushed; a scent of melting butter wafts out from inside his room. He gestures behind him: “I’m rather busy.”

“Sorry,” Ben says guiltily, swallowing. “When you asked me to come over, I guess I just assumed you meant —”

“It’s fine,” Hux says, clipped. He clears his throat. “Come in. It’s fine.” With obvious difficulty, he opens the door wider — and when Ben steps inside, he can’t stop himself from laughing out loud.

“Whoa, dude, did you just kill a man?”

Hux is wearing white latex gloves and an apron that once, at some point, might’ve been blue; but both apron and gloves are smeared with a dark damp liquid that looks like nothing so much as blood. There are sticky marks on the door handle, too, which Hux is looking at with supreme distaste.

“No,” Hux says primly, his nose wrinkling, “I did _not._ I’ve been pitting cherries all morning.”

“Can I ask why? Just something you do for fun?” Ben teases, trying to relax, closing the door behind him. His heartbeat’s picking up just being in the same room as Hux.

“For pie,” Hux says, flushing. “I’m making pies. I bake. When I’m stressed.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Ben senses he’s not going to be told why, exactly, Hux is stressed, but he guesses-slash-hopes it has something to do with him and the way things ended the other night.

Hux nods tightly. “Yes.”

His words are awkward, stilted, with no trace of his usual self-assuredness. His red hair is disheveled, and there’s a faint smudge of juice across his cheek, where he must’ve brushed away a hair or scratched an itch. His eyes keep darting to Ben’s face and then away. Ben doesn’t know what to say.

A timer sounds, loud and insistent. Abruptly Hux turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the kitchen; Ben follows him, relieved. The kitchen looks like an organized warzone. There’s an obvious assembly line on the counter by the sink — a bowl half-full of whole cherries, a cutting board in the middle on which some kind of metal implement rests, another bowl half-full of pitted cherries — and dark-purple juice on _everything_. Ben leans up against the other, unoccupied and un-juice-covered counter as Hux goes to the oven and takes out the bottom crusts for three pies, golden-brown and steaming.

“Looks good,” he comments, wanting to fill the silence, as Hux clearly isn’t going to. “Can I help with anything?”

“No.” Hux sets down the crusts on top of the stove, turns off the oven, swaps his pot-holders for a fresh pair of latex gloves, and goes back to his assembly line to start pitting cherries again. The cherries must’ve been frozen, sometime back in the spring or the summer, and as they thaw they leak more juice than their tiny forms should be able to hold, running purplish-red over Hux’s fingers as he works the stones from the flesh with fussy, Hux-y precision. “Just — make yourself at home.”

“Oh — okay. Thanks.” Ben takes a seat at the small, round kitchen table, noting that there are only two chairs: obviously Hux doesn’t entertain often. “So, uh — why’d you ask me over, if not to enlist my manly muscles for manual labour?” he cracks, in an effort to lighten a mood which seems to be getting heavier by the minute.

Hux pauses in his work, a cherry still held in his hand. “Right. Yes.” He clears his throat and shells out the pit with one visceral scoop. “I wanted to talk about the other night. To — apologise.”

Whatever Ben had been expecting, it genuinely hadn’t been this. “Apologise?”

“For how I…reacted. After.” Hux swallows, colouring slightly.

“Okay,” Ben answers slowly. “Apology accepted.” And then he decides he has to ask: “Um. But, well — was it — was it…all right? Before?”

Hux’s eyes dart to him and then skittishly away. He nods several times in a row, quickly, hunching over his cherries. “Yes. Yes. It was. Yes. That — wasn’t the problem.”

“Then what was?” Ben asks gently. The moment feels fragile. “I want to know what I did wrong, Hux, and I want to fix it. I’m not kidding,” he says, utterly serious, when Hux glances at him doubtfully. “I really like you.”

“Really?” Hux looks him in the eye. “You really mean that?” He sounds young, strangely insecure.

Ben nods.

Hux exhales. “It’s — that’s just it.” He scoops up a small handful of cherries, dumps them on the cutting board, picks one up but doesn’t pit it, just rolls it around between his gloved fingers. “I suppose I’m not used to that. Being liked, I mean.”

“How do you mean?” Ben’s brow creases.

“Well. You know.” Hux waves a hand. “I’m not exactly — nice. To people. To you,” he amends.

“Okay,” Ben shrugs. “Whatever.”

Hux’s eyebrows lift. “You don’t care that I — bailed like I did?”

Ben shakes his head. Hux frowns. “I’ve been a prick, Ben, an absolute prick. Surely you must’ve been at least a little pissed.”

“Well, yeah, I was,” Ben concedes. “Or — not pissed, but, like — sad. I was sad,” he says frankly, shrugging.

“I made you…sad?” Hux repeats, taken aback.

Ben nods.

“Oh,” Hux says quietly. He sets down the cherry, still whole. “I didn’t — I never thought…I’m sorry.”

“I like you,” Ben says simply. “A lot.”

“Yes,” Hux says. “I see that. And I — I don’t know what to do,” he confesses abruptly. “Like I said. I’m not used to this.”

“This?” Ben asks.

 _“This,”_ Hux says, gesturing to Ben. “People being — interested. In me. In — being with me. I’ve never been… _pursued_ before.”

His tone is uncertain; Ben can’t read it. “Was it too much? Was I actually making you uncomfortable?” he asks immediately, feeling awful. “God, I’m sorry, I never meant —”

“No,” Hux interrupts him. “No. No. It’s — it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s all — fine.” He flushes, and thinks for a minute, wetting his lips with his tongue. “You’ve been so…sweet,” he says finally, quietly. “I — I had no idea how to react to it. To being — liked. People don’t _like_ me.”

He swallows, and his face is vulnerable. His eyes are lonely. Ben’s heart flips.

“But I do,” Ben repeats, soft. He stands up from the table and comes over to the counter. Hux follows him with his gaze, his eyes wide-open, hesitant.

“For God knows what reason,” he replies, but his voice too is soft, almost breaking; and Ben leans down, careful, careful, and presses his lips to Hux’s.

Hux sighs. His eyes slide shut and he sinks into the kiss. Ben brings his fingers to Hux’s wrists and peels off his dirty gloves one by one, freeing his hands; Hux pulls back for a moment to take off his stained apron, and then his mouth is back on Ben’s with a fervour, his hands coming up helplessly to the back of Ben’s neck. They kiss, standing there in the kitchen, Ben’s hands resting lightly on Hux’s waist as if he’s afraid to break him.

And then Hux pulls back again, and says, “Do you want to —”, and without waiting for an answer he leads Ben to the couch. He lies down and looks up at him.

Ben straddles his hips with care, kisses him again. A gentle noise escapes Hux’s lips; it sounds like Ben’s name.

At some point they end up in Hux’s tiny dorm bedroom, in his little twin bed with plain grey sheets, the sight of which makes Ben’s heart ache. Ben thinks that, if they were in a movie, this is where the indie-pop song would start to play: the acoustic guitar soft as he peels off Hux’s shirt, helps him work his jeans over his bony hips; some gentle raspy voice singing their love story. Hux lies back on the pillows and pulls Ben down to him, and Ben is aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this, that he might be Hux’s first; and he moves even more slowly, more carefully now. He feels like there’s a jar of fireflies trapped in his chest.

Hux closes his eyes and arches his back and he breathes Ben’s name; and the fireflies spill out, and light up the room with a hundred tiny stars.

*

In the morning, Ben wakes alone in Hux’s bed.

A cold panic, a dread takes hold of him, wrapping a tight fist around his heart. He closes his eyes and sinks back into the pillows and prepares himself to be pushed away again, this time maybe forever.

But then the door creaks open, and there’s Hux already dressed, and he’s wearing — “That’s my sweater,” Ben says, his voice hoarse with sleep. He gives a groggy grin.

Hux nods — “Hope you don’t mind,” he says, a new shy smile playing on his lips. He’s carrying a cardboard take-out tray that’s holding two Styrofoam cups. He comes over to the bed, sets the tray on the night-stand and sits beside Ben, leaning down to kiss him as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.

“What’ve you got there?” Ben asks when they break apart, gesturing to the tray.

“Oh, this?” Hux says with practised casualness, his eyes glinting with humour. “I brought coffee. I do believe I owe you.”

He hands Ben a cup. It’s a large, from the coffee stall where they first met. “Be careful with that, now,” Hux adds, grinning. “It cost three dollars, don’t you know. _Do_ try not to spill it.”

Ben laughs, and reaches up to kiss him again. “Best three bucks I’ve ever spent.”

* 

**Author's Note:**

> Retractable fountain pens are totally a thing and Hux totally owns one. ([This one in particular](http://www.shopwritersbloc.com/lamy-dialog-3-palladium-fine-nib.html), in case you were wondering.)
> 
> Ben's pining jam is [Nicest Thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmT9jNashAg) by Kate Nash.
> 
> All my thanks, as usual, to [Redcap64](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcap64/pseuds/Redcap64) for betaing and helping me figure out the last, like, three lines at 12:30 a.m. when you had to work in the morning. (What did I do to deserve you?) A big shoutout to Mak as well, for your wise guidance re: Hux's film preferences and _Blue Velvet_ , and also for organising this fab little exchange in the first place! You're the man, my dude (even if you _have_ turned me Soft™.) ❤️
> 
> Last but not least, please do come say hi on my [main blog](http://abernathae.tumblr.com) or my [Star Wars](http://huxes.tumblr.com) blog!


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